Epilogue
Charlotte had avoided the west wing for months.
She avoided it after the wedding, even after trust and affection had begun to blossom. That wing with the shuttered corridor sealed by Cassian’s grief, remained a place she approached only in thought, never in step.
But today, something drew her there. Perhaps instinct, perhaps hope, perhaps the stubborn seed of love that refused to wilt.
The corridor was dim and hushed, and dust motes were swirling in pale ribbons of morning light. As she neared the doorway she had once foolishly forced open, she heard movement inside.
Her pulse stuttered. Charlotte paused at the threshold by the door that had been left ajar and watched silently for a moment.
Cassian stood in the centre of the old room with his sleeves rolled. He was carefully lifting items from a shelf: a ribbon, a small silver rattle, a folded quilt. He examined each one before placing it reverently into a wooden trunk at his feet.
She hesitated to step forward. After all, they hadn’t spoken in days, since she had told him about her pregnancy. She wondered if she should interrupt him or let him have his moment.
At last, she stepped forward.
“What are you doing?” she asked softly, wanting to know, to be a part of his heart.
Cassian turned. Surprise flickered across his face, followed by a gentler emotion. She felt relief. At least he was not upset with her.
“Charlotte,” he said quietly. “I did not hear you.”
She hesitated, eyes drifting to the objects in the trunk. “I thought you never wished to enter this room again.”
He looked around slowly. “Nor did I… not then.” His hand brushed the windowsill, clearing a line through the dust. “But now… things have changed.”
Charlotte moved closer, her voice barely above a whisper. “Because of the baby.”
Cassian nodded.
“For so long,” he said, choosing his words with care, “this room has been… a grave I never buried. I could not bring myself to move anything. It felt like erasing them: my wife, my son, even the hope I once had.” His throat worked, and Charlotte’s heart tightened at the rawness in his voice.
“I feared that if I touched any of it, I would break.”
She reached out, lightly resting her fingertips on the corner of the trunk. “And now?”
Cassian drew a breath. This was the most vulnerable she had ever seen him, and she didn’t want to frighten him by demanding more words than he was ready to give.
So she remained silent and waiting. “Now I fear something different. I fear losing you and our child.” His voice cracked, but only for a moment.
“The last time I loved this deeply, I buried everything that mattered. I swore I would never risk that grief again. When you told me you were expecting, the memory returned so violently I could scarcely breathe.”
Charlotte swallowed, realizing that it was never about him not loving their child, but about loving it too much, and fearing for it.
“Cassian…”
“I reacted shamefully,” he continued. “Not because I do not want this child, but because I do. I want it more than I ever allowed myself to want anything again. And that terrified me.”
Cassian stepped closer, not touching her yet as though awaiting permission.
“I do not want this room to remain frozen in sorrow,” he said.
“We will move these keepsakes elsewhere with honour, not neglect. And this…” His gaze swept the faded curtains, the empty cradle, and the dust-covered toys.
“This will become a nursery again, for our child, filled with light and laughter instead of ghosts.”
Charlotte’s breath trembled. Slowly, she lifted her hand to his cheek. He closed his eyes at the touch, leaning into it like a man starved for warmth.
“I was afraid,” she whispered, “that my joy became your burden.”
Cassian opened his eyes, anguish and devotion shining equally in them. “Never. Your joy is my salvation. I simply… needed a moment to learn how to carry it.”
Something inside Charlotte unclenched, something that had been wound tight since she left for Lydia’s. She stepped into his arms, and this time, he held her without armour or fear of being seen.
They stood like that for a long breath, the soft hush of the abandoned nursery wrapping around them like a blanket. Cassian’s thumb brushed over her knuckles, and Charlotte leaned into him, resting her head lightly against his shoulder.
After a time, he spoke. “Have you thought of names?”
Charlotte smiled, the question warming her from the inside out. “A few.”
Cassian drew her toward the window seat, and they sank down together, close enough that their knees touched. He kept her hand in his.
“Go on, then,” he said. “Tell me what my child shall be called.”
She laughed softly. “Our child, Cassian.”
He inclined his head gently. “Our child.”
Charlotte considered. “For a girl… Eleanor is beautiful. And meaningful. But I don’t wish to reopen wounds.”
Cassian shook his head gently. “No. Not that name, although it is beautiful. Some memories should rest.” He squeezed her hand. “Choose one that is only ours.”
“Then perhaps… Clara? Or Amelia? Or Rose?” she suggested with a shy hopefulness in her voice.
Cassian smiled. “Clara Oberon. I confess, I like the sound.”
“And if it is a boy?” she asked.
He huffed a faint laugh. “I suppose there must be a Cassian the Second someday.”
She nudged him. “Someday, perhaps, but not this one. He deserves a name of his own. What of William? Or Philip?”
Cassian paused. “Philip,” he repeated, testing it. “Strong… steady. Yes. Philip… I could see that.”
They fell into soft laughter then, imagining a child with her smile or his stubborn brow, a nursery filled with mischief and light, and light footsteps echoing in the very hall that had once echoed with silence.
For the first time, their future did not feel fragile. It felt possible.
Cassian released her hand only long enough to reach into his coat. “There is something else.” He drew out a small, leather-bound book tied with a ribbon. “For you. I ordered it weeks ago, and it arrived yesterday.”
Charlotte blinked. “What is it?”
“Open and see.”
She undid the ribbon and lifted the cover. Her breath caught. Persuasion. It was her favourite, one she had mentioned only once, in passing, during a late-night conversation in the library.
“You remembered,” she whispered.
Cassian’s expression softened. “I remember everything you say, especially when you speak of the things that shaped you.”
Speechless, she smoothed her hand over the first page.
“May I?” he asked, nodding to the book.
She gave it to him, unable to hide her delight. Cassian turned to a marked passage and began reading in a low, steady voice. The words flowed like quiet poetry through the dim room. It was a passage about steadfast love, not loud or flamboyant, but constant, enduring, and true.
“I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late… I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago.”
Charlotte listened, and her heart felt full.
However, it was not because of Austen’s words, for she herself had read them a dozen times, but because of his; because Cassian had chosen this passage, this story, and this moment to offer her peace.
He wanted to pledge to her, without theatrics or any spectacle, that he was here with her and for her.
When he finished, she lay her head on his shoulder once more. He rested his cheek against her hair. No danger threatened in that moment. No ghosts prowled. No fear choked the air.
There was only sunlight on dust motes, the warmth of his hand in hers, and the promise of a future they would face together one step, one breath, one heartbeat at a time.
THE END?
(turn the page)